And here, by sweet endearing stealth,

Shall meet the loving pair, Despising worlds with all their wealth

As empty idle care: The flow'rs shall vie in all their charms

The hour of heav'n to grace, And birks extend their fragrant arms

To screen the dear embrace,

Here haply too, at vernal dawn,

Some musing bard may stray,
And eye the smoking, dewy lawn,

And misty mountain, grey;
Or, by the reaper's nightly beam,

Mild-chequering thro' the trees,
Rave to my darkly dashing stream,

Hoarse-swelling on the breeze.

Let lofty firs, and ashes cool,

My lowly banks o'erspread,
And view, deep-bending in the pool,

Their shadows' wat'ry bed !
Let fragrant birks in woodbines drest

My craggy cliffs adorn;
And, for the little songster's nest,

The close embow'ring thorn.

So may old Scotia's darling hope,

Your little angel band,
Spring, like their fathers, up to prop

Their honour'd native land!
So may thro' Albion's farthest ken,

To social-flowing glasses,
The grace be-“ Athole's honest men,

And Athole's bonnie lasses !"



A wild scene among the hills of Oughtertyre.

Why, ye tenants of the lake,
For me your wat'ry haunt forsake?
Tell me, fellow.creatures, why
At my presence thus you fly?
Why disturb your social joys,
Parent, filial, kindred ties ?-
Common friend to you and me,
Nature's gifts to all are free:
Peaceful keep your dimpling wave,
Busy feed, or wanton lave;
Or, beneath the sheltering rock,
Bide the surging billow's shock.

Conscious, blushing for our race, Soon, too soon, your fears I trace. Man, your proud usurping foe, Would be lord of all below: Plumes himself in Freedom's pride, Tyrant stern to all beside.

The eagle, from the cliffy brow,
Marking you his prey below,
In his breast no pity dwells,
Strong necessity compels.
But man, to whom alone is giv'n
A ray direct from pitying heav'n,
Glories in his heart humane-
And creatures for his pleasure slain.

In these savage, liquid plains,
Only known to wand'ring swains,
Where the mossy riv'let strays,
Far from human haunts and ways;
All on nature you depend,
And life's poor season peaceful spend.

Or, if man's superior might
Dare invade your native right,
On the lofty ether borne,
Man with all his pow'rs you scorn,
Swiftly seek, on clanging wings,
Other lakes and other springs;
And the foe you cannot brave,
Scorn at least to be his slave.


Over the chimney-piece, in the parlour of the

Inn at Kenmore, Taymouth.

Admiring nature in her wildest grace,
These northern scenes with weary feet I tracks
O’er many a winding dale and painful steep,
Th’abodes of covey'd grouse and timid sheep,
My savage journey, curious, I pursue,
'Till fan'd Breadalbane opens to my view.-
The meeting cliffs each deep-sunk glen divides,
The woods, wild scatter'd, clothe their ample

Th'outstretching lake, imbosomed ’mong the hills,
The eye with wonder and amazement fills ;
The Tay meand'ring sweet in infant pride,
The palace rising on his verdant side ;
The lawns wood-fring'd in nature's native taste ;
The hillocks dropt in nature's careless haste;
The arches striding o'er the new-born stream;
The village, glittering in the noontide beam-

Poetic ardors in my bosom swell,
Lone wand'ring by the hermit's mossy oell:
The sweeping theatre of hanging woods ;
Th’incessant roar of headlong tumbling floods

Here Poesy might wake her heav'n-taught lyrę,
And look through nature with creative fire;
Here, to the wrongs of fate half reconcild,
Misfortune's lighten'd steps might wander wild;
And disappointment, in these lonely bounds,
Find balm to sooth her bitter rankling wounds :
Here heart-struck grief might heav'nward stretch

her scan
And injur'd worth forget and pardon man.


Standing by the Fall of Fyers, near Loch-Ness.

Among the heathy hills and ragged woods The roaring Fyers pours his mossy floods ; 'Till full he dashes on the rocky mounds, Where, thro' a shapeless breach, his stream re.

sounds. As high in air the bursting torrents flow, As deep recoiling surges foam below, Prone down the rock the whitening sheet de.

scends, And viewless echo's ear, astonish'd, rends. Dim-seen, through rising mists and ceaseless

The hoary cavern, wide-surrounding, low'rs.
Still thro' the gap the struggling river toils,
And still, below, the horrid cauldron boils



Born in peculiar circumstances of family distress.

Sweet flow'ret, pledge o' meikle love,

And ward o'mony a pray’r,
What heart ostane wad thou na move,

Sae helpless, sweet, and fair.

November hirples o'er the lea,

Chill, on thy lovely form ;
And gane, alas! the shelt'ring tree,

Should shield thee f'rae the storm.

May He who gives the rain to pour,

And wings the blast to blaw, Protect thee frae the driving show'r,

The bitter frost and snaw.

May he, the friend of woe and want,

Who heals life's various stounds, Protect and guard the mother plant,

And heal her cruel wounds.

But late she flourish'd, rooted fast,

Fair on the summer morn:
Now feebly bends she, in the blast,

Unshelter'd and forlorn.

Blest be thy bloom, thou lovely gem,

Unscath'd by ruffian hand!
And from the many a parent stem

Arise to deck our land.

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